


Let It Snow (and since we've no place to go)

by aydyl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, F/M, Idiots in Love, Modern AU, Snowed In, i also know nothing about bodyguards, i guess, i have no idea what this is, or idiots learning that they might just love each other, there is definitely a smidge of mutual pining in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28361673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aydyl/pseuds/aydyl
Summary: Jaime and Brienne are stuck in a snow storm. They determine to make the best of it.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 40
Kudos: 125
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange 2020





	Let It Snow (and since we've no place to go)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aviss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviss/gifts).



> Special thanks to CoffeeBean_1207 and Velvetina_Belle for their mad beta skillz.
> 
> Aviss, I'm sorry, this is not completely what you asked for - but I hope you enjoy it!

The weather report barked at them. Snow showers, heavy, rolling down from beyond the Wall.

“Bloody north,” Jaime muttered, tearing his toast into bits and covering his fingers in butter and crumbs. He glared down at his butter-covered fingers, hissed out his annoyance and wiped them on a napkin before glancing at his companion. Brienne merely poured herself a coffee and looked back at the television screen with her wide blue eyes. She radiated fucking calm, and it just made him angrier. “Well?” he asked. He sounded like a dick, and he knew it.

She shrugged slightly and looked at him. “I’m game if you are.”

He shoved his plate away and grabbed his phone, bringing up the GPS and a maps app, and laid the phone flat on the table so he could stab at it with his hand. The app calculated travel times. “Eight hours,” he said, finally.

She raised an eyebrow and looked at the ceiling. “That’s eight hours in good weather?”

Jaime shrugged. “The fuck should I know? I’m not a bloody weather-man.”

Brienne frowned and looked pointedly towards the nearby table where a harried looking mother sat wrangling three loud children.

Jaime took a sip of coffee, stared her dead in the eye, and said “fuck,” loudly. 

Delighted, he finally saw anger flush her cheeks, but she took a deep breath, smiled apologetically at the scandalised mother and stood up.

“On second thoughts, Lannister, I’d rather stay here.”

He watched her walk away, her jeans clinging to her thighs and her broad shoulders straining against the sweatshirt she had borrowed from him last night when he had accidentally spilled a beer down her front and felt unexpectedly bad about it. 

He didn’t need to hear her say the rest. She would rather stay here than risk getting snowed into a car on the Kings Road and be utterly unable to get away from him.

* * *

Brienne slammed her hotel door shut and then winced as the cheap wood bounced off the door frame. She did not get naturally angry, certainly not about weather fronts that she couldn’t help, or cheap department issued cars that broke down in out of the way places in the deep north during said weather fronts. But Jaime Lannister … somehow, he slid under her skin. Picked apart her calm with a sniper’s precision.

She pushed her way into her en-suite and dabbed cold water onto her face, blotting her skin roughly with a towel. She was still wearing his sweatshirt and tore it off to throw it in the laundry hamper by the side of the shower stall. They were going to be here for a while now, she may as well make the best of it and she couldn’t do that while enveloped in his distracting sweater, the scent of his cologne all around her.

She shouldn’t leave him alone, not really, but she had eyed all of the guests over dinner last night and breakfast that morning. They were one of three parties - the mother of three that Jaime had so rudely shocked, and a lone elderly man who liked to read at the bar over a cheap scotch.

And, frankly, if any of them tried to take Jaime hostage for the Lannister millions at this point she might just let them.

* * *

Jaime finished his coffee, slammed down some dragon bills on the breakfast table, and grouched his way up the stairs to his room. The adjoining door would be locked, he knew. Brienne always insisted on joined rooms when he had to stay in a hotel. He rapped loudly, and a second later the lock snapped open and the door opened. 

Her eyes flickered past him to survey the room, finding all the shadowy corners that she was paid to seek out, before snapping back to him and leaning against the door jamb. “Jaime?” she asked calmly.

“Tarth,” he sung back, leaning against the opposite door jamb and grinning at her. She flushed slightly and frowned, staring at him. She was wearing a new sweater, one of her own, a large shapeless grey thing that he hated and had done since day bloody one. “Where’s my sweatshirt?”

“I put it out for laundry,” she said, still frowning. “We’re likely to be here for a few days, with the weather.”

“And made me miss out on my sweater smelling of you for days, Tarth?” he quipped and watched her eyes widen, “I’m hurt.” Her flush turned into an ugly, blotchy blush. 

* * *

Jaime was an arrogant sod. 

She had known he was rich, of course. Rich beyond reason, really, hence the need for a bodyguard. She had seen the brutal mugging on the news, the awful injury to his hand when he had tried to grab the knife and they had almost hacked it off. All for a few dragons, it turned out. He hadn’t been carrying more than 500 when it had happened.

He’d had a bodyguard at the time, she presumed, but had never heard anything about it in the business. She’d been in the army at the time anyway, special ops, nowhere near any of this, but the Lannisters didn’t disappear because she was sweating her arse off in the back end of nowhere.

_You were a Black Knight?_ he’d asked incredulously the first day they had met, and for one brief second she had thought he had been impressed, only for him to quip that he hadn’t realised they were hiring livestock into special op teams these days.

She’d almost turned down the job on that alone, but she was ex-army with a horrific facial injury and nothing else going for her. It was either this or slink back to Tarth and spend the rest of her days fishing on her dad’s boat. She had straightened her shoulders and jutted her jaw. _Nothing I haven’t heard before_ she had shrugged, as Tywin turned to her as though waiting for her to explain her size and her face acceptably, even as he raised an eyebrow as his son’s rudeness.

Her duties were essentially to stick to Jaime Lannister like glue. 

It had been a surprisingly easy rap. Jaime never went anywhere. He worked from home, had his groceries delivered, and spent the occasional evening at his friend Addam’s sharing a beer and watching the game. The only time she had to really up her game was at the never-ending stream of work functions that seemed to form his entire social calendar.

She had thought it was strange. He was an arrogant sod, yes, but a _rich_ arrogant sod and so good looking it was sinful. On the occasions he did go into the office she had to swallow around the discomfort in her throat as he emerged in soft grey suits that were pretty much painted on to his athletic frame. Even in ratty sweatpants he looked like a god. She had once turned up and entered the apartment just as he was getting out of the shower and she had felt her entire body blush as he wandered into the kitchen in nothing more than a low slung towel with his golden curls clinging to his damp neck.

Yet, there were no women. No men. Not for lack of offers, or interest. She stuck to him like glue, as per her orders, and saw the interest from those that were cut from a cloth so far above her own she shrank into her own inadequacies.

Jaime would flirt and smile and charm, and sometimes he would seem interested and she would think _this is the night, this is the night where I have to head home and hear him in the room next to me_. But the interest would eventually slide from his face and he would smile and find her and gesture towards the exit.

* * *

Brienne was boring. Jaime had thought she was a man the first time he saw her, standing large and awkward in his father’s office, but he had slid into his seat and caught a glimpse of her chewed up cheek and bloody blue eyes and felt a jolt of _something_ in his stomach when he realised she was a woman.

Not just a woman, but a fucking Black Knight. Gods, they were the elite. She could probably shoot someone through the head from something stupid like five miles. Not that she looked like she wanted to, which was strange. Ex-army churned out body guards like they were going out of fashion and in his experience they tended to like the idea that they may need to beat the living shit out of someone. He had made a stupid joke about farm animals and she had just shrugged, no anger.

She looked like she would take shit and deal with it, and just hit what needed to be hit. 

Sometimes, he thought she would hit him but she would take a breath and swallow and turn away. She would find something cool - a drink of water, cold water on her face, a deep breath at the open window - and then she would be back in business. The business of protecting him from the nasties of the world, and it had made him furious at the beginning. That he could no longer look after himself, because of one bloody man on one bloody night which had cost him most of his hand and all of his dignity.

A damsel in fucking distress, indeed.

But time had gone on. She had started off living in some shitty apartment downtown, but his father had eventually insisted she move into his place. She had wanted to protest, of course. So had he. The last thing he had wanted was a twenty four hour babysitter.

_Not for you_ , his father had said, not even bothering to look at them over his screen. The case was closed and the rest of the words went unsaid. 

It wasn’t about Jaime. His father just wasn’t going to risk Lannister gold on a broken son.

So she had moved in as per instruction. She hardly made a dent in the apartment. No trinkets, no photos. A shelf in the bathroom and a cupboard in the kitchen and a spare room she seemed to sleep in and nothing else.

She liked the balcony. He had found that out one morning at 4am. The dawn was just licking the horizon and he couldn’t sleep. His hand ached and ached, and he had wandered out and found her there leaning out over the city. Her silhouette was dark and hulking against the blueing sky. He’d pulled out a cigarette and joined her, trying to light it with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. She had turned to him, ready to give him that perfunctory nod that she seemed to think was all that he was worthy of, but instead had taken the lighter in her hand and he had tipped his head towards her and she had lit his cigarette. Fingertips had ghosted across his cheek as she held him still. There had been no pity in her blue eyes.

And for the first time he had thought that she was something more. Something solid in his life, like one of those weirwood trees. Deep roots, strong and immovable.

* * *

So, of course, he wanted to crack her like an egg.

Make her angry, make her swear, make her lose her cool. Make her blush that delightful blush that seemed to roll down her cheeks, down her neck, dip below her collar.

She was watching him with wary eyes now, her cheeks still flushed. “Did you need something, Lannister?” she asked, fingers tapping on the door frame. Looking past her, he could see snow already starting to drift down from dark grey skies.

“Yes,” he said. “If we’re going to be stuck in this frozen wasteland for days, we can at least entertain each other.”

She rolled her eyes. “It isn’t my job to entertain you, Lannister.”

He quirked an eyebrow and she just tutted. “Oh, come _on_ , Tarth. Even you must need to indulge in fun once in a while.” She frowned at him. No, scowled. “Time off?” he asked, “holiday? Friends? Any of these ringing a bell?”

She blew out sharply from her nose and glared at him.

“Fine,” he groused, “I’m going outside and you need to come to protect me from the kneazles.” He shoved himself away from the door frame and back into his room, flinging his jacket on. “If I happen to hit your ugly head with a snowball, then so be it.”

* * *

The snow was already thick on the ground, and more fell steadily from the lowering skies above them. Brienne already knew Jaime wouldn’t last long out here - it was freezing cold, and he had a scarf and coat but hardly anything that would really withstand a hard northern snowfall. He was out here to make her life difficult and damn it, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

He walked ahead of her, his boots crunching in the virgin snow, out towards the gate leading to a field where horses usually stayed but had been led indoors in preparation for the coming storm. Her eyes darted around out of habit, looking for anything that could be used as cover for a potential assailant. A lone tree stood just off centre. Cars were parked in the car park, steadily disappearing under the wintry onslaught. Three cars, for each set of guests. No footprints other than theirs. She relaxed a little as she followed her charge. The knife strapped to her calf burnt a little in the cold.

He trudged ahead of her, his breath streaming out like a dragon’s. The cold nipped at her bare fingers. “Happy, Lannister?” she muttered, but the immense silence of a snowfall took up her words and he heard them, turning, grinning fiercely at her.

“Very, Tarth,” and the snowball hit her square on the shoulder, “isn’t this fun?”

She gasped at the sudden cold flurry, the icy spray dripping down beneath her collar. She dipped down without even thinking about it, hands gripping snow and launching it at his smug golden face. It hit him right between the eyes and he spluttered in shock. She laughed soundly, ready to duck. “You’re right, Lannister,” she called as he wiped sludge from his eyes, “This _is_ fun.”

He stared at her in surprise, blinking, the melting snow running in rivulets down his face, his messy blonde curls falling damply across his forehead. He looked divine, standing in a snowbank with snow drifting around him. And then he smiled, the laughter bubbling out of him like a spring as he ducked himself and scooped up snow with his bare hands and patted them into awkward snowballs. “ _Tarth!_ ” he hollered, positively gleeful, “I didn’t know you bloody had it in you!”

Excitement licked her stomach, something in her chest reaching out to match the childlike smile on his own face. She grabbed snow, shaping them into missiles. His snowballs rained down around her - an appalling shot with his ruined hand and his left hand, but his laughter rang across the snowy silent field and, peeking up through her damp fringe, she saw him running backwards from her, a breathless smile on his face. Taking aim, she lined him up in her sights.

Each of her shots was perfect. 

Both knees. His hip. His right elbow. His collarbone. His chest. His forehead. Non-fatal to fatal. Every single distracting piece of himself that he had ever flaunted before her, caught in her perfect execution. Five seconds.

He stopped running. Looked at her, from across the expanse of snow, an expression on his face that she couldn’t read but she could still see the laughter crinkling the corner of his eyes. “Surrender, Lannister?” she hollered, ready to drag more snow towards her, but he was already ducking, already forming more snowballs, still fighting. 

“Never,” he roared back, laughter rippling through the word. Snowballs rained around her, glancing off her shoulder.

She grinned, dipped, and grabbed a handful of snow in her frozen hands. Glanced up to see the wicked smile on his face.

He barrelled towards her, arms reaching around her waist, and his momentum and the snow carried her backwards with a flumph. She squealed with laughter, his own glee a throaty chuckle in her ear. “Surrender, Tarth,” he growled, rearing back to hover over her. Amidst her giggles, she could see Jaime scrabbling for snow with his good hand even as his ruined hand lay heavy on her hip. 

“I do not surrender,” she said, and she knew the smile was wide on her face, her too big teeth on display for him to see and she didn’t care, _didn't care_ , because his own smile was wide across his, bright and golden and happy. 

He was grinning. “Very unwise, Tarth,” he murmured, his eyes flickering over her face, smile gentling. She was suddenly aware of his heat, his legs tangled with hers, his weight heavy on her hips.

“Really?” she breathed, very aware of her hands. She could reached for his ruined hand and crush it. She could find his hips and twist him over, using her own weight to pin him. She could jerk her leg up, find her knife, press it to his neck. She could trace his lips with her fingertips. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed.

He breathed a laugh. “You could annihilate me, couldn’t you?” and his hips seemed to roll over hers. She bit back a gasp.

_No_ , she thought. “Yes,” she said, breath catching in her throat.

His lips quirked up. His hand left her hip, reached for her cheek. Her ruined cheek. She flinched, but his hand just hovered over it. “What happened?” he asked, voice soft. Snow was still falling, catching in his hair. 

She shook her head. It was still all heat and noise and screaming metal in her memory. She still sweated to think of it, sometimes jerking up in the middle of the night with the covers twisted around her legs and the sheets a sweaty mess. “I wasn’t fast enough,” she said, simply. 

He nodded once, sharply, and something flickered in his eyes that she didn’t understand. He just wiggled his own fingers gently, his fingertips drifting against her cheek. “Neither was I.”

* * *

Jaime balled his hand into a fist and released it, flexing the fingers. The pain flared and eased with each movement like a tide. He must have hissed because she turned and frowned at him, beer bottle halfway to her mouth.

“Lannister?” she asked, unsure.

“Nothing,” he grunted, eyes glued to the television screen, refusing to look at her. He didn’t want her pity or her sympathies, couldn’t bear to see the look that would undoubtedly be splattered across her face.

“Your hand?” she said, a question she already knew the answer to. She shifted, sighing. “I can make a call, there might be someone…”

He gestured towards the window. The snow was falling thick and fast, piling up against the glass like a blanket and glowing eerily in the half light. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

He heard the clink of her bottle being set down, felt the dip of the mattress as she moved closer. He wanted to jerk away. Run and slam the door, and let her lock it between them. Instead, her hand reached and he felt cool fingers gently brush against his wrist.

He snapped his gaze to her face. She wasn’t looking at him, instead at his ruined hand. No pity. No sympathy. Just thought and question, her gaze slipping over the mess of scarring. “I can …” she started, and nodded towards his hand, her gaze rising to meet his and uncertainty creasing her brow. 

But Gods, her eyes were calm and blue and glowing in the golden lamplight and in that moment he might have given her his soul should she have asked.

“Got a medical degree tucked away somewhere too, Tarth?” he croaked, fingers flexing under the lightness of her grip.

A smile, a fucking _smile_ , ghosted her lips and was gone in a moment. “In the field, we needed to learn to take care of ourselves.”

And Gods, if he didn’t want to make a joke about that and she must have seen it on his face because she rolled her eyes and that ugly blotchy blush slammed across her cheeks and she started to pull away, and he gripped her tight, pulled her back. “No,” he whispered.

She exhaled softly. “Okay,” she whispered back, coughed, frowned. She pulled his wrist into her lap and he shuffled to give her room. Her hands stroked down his hand gently, fingers pressing and probing. She watched him intently, eyes flickering between his face and his hand, looking for the spots that made him flinch.

Her thumbs and fingers pressed and dipped into the meat of his hand, and she was no longer looking at him. Her gaze was intent on his hand, on her work. Her hands were rough and callused, and her skin caught on his as she moved and sought out the aches that had settled deep into his bones. And as she worked, something was soothing in his chest. Unfurling. Gods, he could fucking feel it happening. 

His hand started to relax in her hold, she pressed right into the meat of his hand and he groaned. She blushed, but carried on, her strong fingers working along the muscles, kneading the ache away. She pushed his fingers back gently, her other hand rolling the joints in a way that felt positively obscene and with a groan he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

Her hands were tethering him. Safety. That’s what this was. Beyond her being hired to protect him. 

He let his eyes drift open, caught her gaze on him. Her eyes darted away, back down to his hand in her grasp. Her fingers caged his wrist, the other twisting it gently to and fro. He could feel the restrained power in her hands, and the gentleness of her grasp.

He wanted to kiss her. So he did.

Gently, gently removed her hands from his. Brought his hand to her cheek and rested it there. Her breath hitched in her chest, he could hear it. Flush bloomed across her cheeks, dipping down below her collar. His good hand traced along her collarbone. She looked up at him, her eyes luminous in the golden light of the room. He leaned closer, into the heat of her. She smelled of the outdoors - of cold weather and pine. 

One of his fingers snagged on her bottom lip, and she shivered beneath his palms. “May I?” he breathed, and her tongue darted out to dampen her lips slightly, teeth snagging on her bottom lip. “Gods,” he breathed, as his blood thundered through his veins at the sight.

She leaned forward. “Jaime,” she whispered, her own hand reaching out tentatively to stroke down his jawline. Her hands were warm, solid. He closed his eyes, leaned into her touch. Her lips touched his, just briefly, and his breath shuddered through him.

“Brienne,” he murmured, leaning into her, desperate for the warm solid feel of her against himself. Gods, what was happening to him?

His mouth found hers, and he kissed her. Kissed her as the snow fell steadily against their shitty motel, cocooning them in against the world outside.


End file.
